


You're My Number One

by eksley05



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Awkward Flirting, Clyde can't either but he tries, Craig can't flirt to save his life, Lists lists everywhere, M/M, Thank God for Token, flirty kenny, more to be added so as not to spoil the plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eksley05/pseuds/eksley05
Summary: "Way back in fourth grade, the girls had taken it upon themselves to craft a list, to determine who the cutest boy in class was." For Craig Tucker, it always comes back to lists.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Probably more but we'll see what happens, Token Black/Nichole Daniels (not a main plot point but they're there)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 85





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> I realized, reading over everything I've written for this fandom, that most of my stories are sad and tragic. So I decided to write something different. Let me know what you think!

"Fuck," Craig mutters, an exasperated sigh following the curse word as he sits back and surveys the contents of his bedroom closet and surrounding space. Seventeen years' worth of memories in various forms are strewn across the carpet around him. He frowns down at a stack of last year's biology class notes, kicks aside those horrible pink plastic shutter shades from the metro craze, and flips off his old baseball uniform from the summer between third and fourth grade. At the snort of laughter from behind him, he raises his arm, redirecting the middle finger at his best friend, who is lounging on Craig's bed.

Clyde just grins and rolls his eyes, completely unfazed; he, along with pretty much everyone else in town, had become desensitized to Craig's nonverbal weapon of choice years ago. Leaning back against the wall, he stretches his legs out across the bed, dangling his feet off the edge. "As threatening as you are," he says, his tone clearly conveying the opposite of his words. "I'm just not sure that's gonna work, dude."

Craig lowers his arm, but doesn't turn around, instead leaning forward to sift through another pile of things he hadn't even realized he'd had in his closet. Jeans that hadn't fit him since middle school, complete with a giant hole where the left knee should be; a wooden spoon he'd made in shop class seven – no, eight – years ago; an empty Red Racer DVD case, the disc long since lost. There is a hint of uneasiness in Craig's gray eyes as he takes in the sheer amount of junk around him, but he shakes his head, pushing aside a lock of black hair that falls across his face at the motion. No, he might be messy, but he is _definitely_ not a hoarder. And he needs a fucking haircut.

"You could help, you know," he says, resolving to actually clean his room once this is done - he knows he's not a hoarder, but just to be safe. He looks over his shoulder at Clyde, who is scrolling through something on his phone. "It's your fuckin' bet, not mine."

Clyde moves his shoulders in a halfhearted attempt at a shrug. "You hate when people touch your stuff," he replies, tapping on his phone's screen.

The words, though accurate for the most part, irritate Craig an irrational amount and there is a sharp edge to his voice when he replies. "Does any of this look like shit I care about?" He gestures around him, the sleeve of his black hoodie catching on the edge of a stack of CDs that crash together in a heap on the carpet.

Slightly – but only slightly, because they've been friends since preschool – taken aback by Craig's sudden hostile tone, Clyde tosses his phone down beside him and yawns, lifting his arms to run both hands through his dark brown hair. He flops onto his stomach and grabs the edge of the mattress, sliding himself over so he's hanging off the edge of the bed. "What color is it again?"

"It's not gonna be under there," Craig says with certainty, rolling his eyes. "I haven't thought about that shit in forever." That part's a lie, but Clyde doesn't need to know that. Best friends or not, it's nobody's business but Craig's what he does and does not think about.

"Seems like that's about as long as it's been since you've cleaned under here," Clyde says, his voice muffled as his face is currently underneath Craig's bed. "How the hell do you know where anything is?"

"I have a system," Craig mutters, which is another total lie. The only system he has involves him throwing his hat onto the same spot on his dresser every day when he gets home. Sure, most of the things under his bed are from a more recent time than anything in his closet, but even that isn't always a guarantee. "And it's blue."

"Oh, right, one of those blue systems." Amused, Clyde moves his head out from underneath the bed and looks in Craig's direction, though he can only see his left shoulder from this position. "Haven't thought about it in forever but you remember the color of the notebook, huh?" He is just barely able to keep his balance as he dodges the wooden spoon that comes flying at his face, and the utensil hits the wall instead. Clyde stretches out his arm to pick it up and inspect it. "Is this from shop?" he asks, turning it over in his hands.

"Uh-huh." Craig responds with a grunt. He stares at the back wall of his closet, willing the item he's searching for to just magically appear out of nowhere. It's South Park, after all; stranger things have happened – a fact that Craig is reminded of when he catches sight of his other, diamond-patterned, chullo hat, trapped underneath a ninth grade history textbook he'd never returned.

"No, like, third grade shop?" Clyde looks over in Craig's direction again when his friend sighs. "Dude, there's no way you made this when you were nine." He brandishes the spoon like it's a weapon, slashing at the air in front of him. "It's so good!"

"Just because you fucked up three of them trying to make one," Craig says, nudging the history book aside with his foot and picking up the hat. He stares down at it, having an internal debate with himself about whether or not he should put it on, for nostalgia's sake. When his eyes start to tingle, just a little, he decides it's probably better to just let the past be the past, and tosses it back into the depths of his closet.

"I didn't fuck them up," Clyde protests as his cell phone chirps with a text notification. He drops the spoon on the carpet and pulls himself back up into a sitting position to read the message, blowing the hair that has fallen in his eyes out of the way.

"Uh, yeah, you–" Craig stops in the middle of his sentence as a corner of a sheet of paper with bright pink writing on it catches his eye. It's sticking out of a stack of what looks like trigonometry homework – he's not a hoarder, really – and, as he would never be caught dead with a pink pen, Craig's first thought is that it's something of Tricia's that somehow ended up in his room. But when he pulls the sheet out to investigate, another piece of fourth grade history is staring him in the face. He lets out an involuntary, "Whoa," forgetting for a second that Clyde is in the room and that he's Craig Tucker, the poster child for apathy.

"Find it?"

"Yeah," Craig says flatly, shaking his head and wondering, not for the first time, how the hell Clyde had managed to make it to senior year, with a genius brain like that. "That's why I'm still sitting here."

The sarcasm is lost on Clyde, who's too distracted by his phone to really register Craig's words. "Oh, okay, cool," he says with a nod, typing out a message. After hitting send, he looks up, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"No, I didn't find it." Craig resists the urge to flip Clyde off, and instead holds up the sheet of paper. "Found this though."

Clyde's eyes widen when he sees what it is, and he scrambles across the bed until he's leaning over the end of it, his face inches away from the blast from the past. His hair is just long enough that the tips of it hang down and brush against the paper. "How the hell did you get this?" he asks, incredulously, his eyes moving rapidly across the page.

"Dude, I don't fuckin' know." Craig shrugs, nearly hitting Clyde right in the face with his shoulder. It's not quite a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

Way back in fourth grade, the girls had taken it upon themselves to craft a list, to determine who the cutest boy in class was. When Butters had frantically informed the boys' lunch table about its existence, Cartman, in turn, had taken it upon himself to recruit everyone, Craig included, to get the list for themselves. Once they'd gotten their hands on it and seen where they ranked, though, everything got...weird.

It had never been the girls' intention to make the list public, if Wendy could be believed. Craig only trusts her about twenty percent of the time, but given what had happened after, he's always figured that she was telling the truth in this case.

Craig had been listed at number twelve, and though he would never admit it out loud to anyone, it had really done a number on his self-esteem. Especially since he had ended up being the lowest-ranked of every one of the other members of his gang. It wasn't like he'd thought he was the absolute best-looking guy in the class or anything, and, okay, he couldn't argue with some of the rankings (which was another thing he would never say out loud). But still, even though he didn't think he was number one material, he hadn't expected to score so low. The only silver lining was that he was higher on the list than Cartman.

Clyde had been voted first on the list, which had made him absolutely insufferable for about six days. Six long, _long_ days, during which Craig had been subjected to the worst kind of torture imaginable: dating advice from his best friend. It was like Clyde had figured being voted the cutest boy granted him some kind of God-given right to pass judgment on everyone else's romantic lives.

Or, in Craig's case, the lack thereof.

When Clyde wasn't on the phone with one of the girls, making promises of free shoes for life, he was going on and on to Craig about how being twelfth wasn't really that bad, and maybe he just needed an image change, like to stop wearing his hat and look into braces to straighten out his teeth a little, and maybe try wearing a color other than blue one day. He'd heard from Red – or it might have been Rebecca, honestly, Craig stopped listening after a while – that green was a color a lot of girls liked. Maybe if Craig wore green he'd have better luck, Clyde was sure there were a lot of girls that would be willing to go out with him, he just had to put in a little effort, and did he want Clyde to put in a good word for him?

It was aggravating as all hell, not to mention exhausting. The fact that Craig had shown zero interest in anything Clyde was talking about hadn't deterred him in any way, and he just wouldn't let it go. It had gotten to the point that Craig had changed his Facebook status to "in a relationship" just in the hopes that Clyde would shut the hell up, but not even that worked. It actually made things worse, because then Clyde kept asking him who he was dating, if he knew her, if she went to their school, when he was going to meet her.

Craig had been _this_ close to snapping and punching him right in the face in the middle of the cafeteria when Stan had shown up with Wendy and the news that the list they had been given was a fake. Apparently there had been a whole conspiracy around it, all because of shoes, which Craig found just absolutely bizarre – of course, he was still wearing the same old beat-up sneakers he'd had forever, so it wasn't surprising the nuances of shoe addiction were lost on him.

Clyde had been crestfallen when he learned that he hadn't really been voted the cutest; he'd cried for the whole last twenty minutes of lunch and if he hadn't been acting like a douchebag for the last six days, Craig might have felt bad for him. But, tragically for Clyde, the emotional wounds from the torture of his incessant advice and questioning were still far too fresh, and so Craig had just turned to Stan and asked, "So what was the real list?" regretting the question as soon as it was out of his mouth.

To this day, he has no idea why Stan had handed it over, or even why he'd asked about it in the first place. Yeah, he was curious about who was actually number one, who wouldn't be? But outright asking like that implied that he actually cared about something; and while it was true that there were actually a good many things he cared about, Craig had worked far too hard on perfecting his aloof reputation over the years to ruin it on something as stupid as an arbitrary list of the girls'.

He hadn't even been expecting a real answer, to be honest. Never mind the fact that he and Stan weren't exactly close friends; after seeing what the fake list had done to everyone, Craig had just figured that Stan would feel the need to hide the real list, or destroy it, or something, to avoid more chaos. He was infuriatingly moral like that, always trying to do what he considered the 'right' thing.

And in the cafeteria, it had seemed like that was exactly what had happened. Stan, with a glance over at Wendy, had just shrugged and said, "We burned it." Craig had responded by not responding at all, simply turning back to Clyde, who was still mourning the loss of his status of cutest boy by talking the ear off of an increasingly annoyed Token. And that was that.

Right up until the end of the school day, when Craig had opened his locker to have a piece of sticker-covered notebook paper flutter out and drift to the floor. Beside him, Clyde was digging through his own locker and saying something about a double date with a couple of Raisins waitresses, apparently over the whole fake list debacle already.

Barely listening, and already planning to answer his friend with only a middle finger, Craig crouched down to pick up the paper. It hadn't registered in his mind what it was until he'd picked it up and seen the post-it note stuck to the back: _Thought you should have this. Don't show anyone._ The last three words were heavily underlined, and thanks to the previous week's group science project, Craig recognized the writing as Stan's, and then it clicked in his head what exactly it was he was holding.

As quickly and covertly as he could, Craig folded the paper in half and slid it into the pocket of his jeans before straightening up and pulling his jacket out of his locker. If Clyde hadn't been standing right behind him, he would have wasted no time in finding out where he, and everyone else, _really_ ranked in terms of their looks. In fact, being told not to do something usually resulted in the immediate urge to just go ahead and do it anyway; but in this case, and possibly for the first time ever, Craig thought Stan had a good point. Given how everyone had reacted when they'd seen the first list, it was probably better to keep the real one a secret. And so he had.

"You asshole!"

Until now, anyway.

Craig runs a hand through his hair and resists the urge to sigh. He turns his head to see Clyde glaring at him accusingly, having just seen the real version of the list for the very first time. "What?"

"What do you mean, _what_?" Clyde gestures wildly to the sheet of paper in Craig's hands. His phone beeps again and he reaches behind him to grab it. "How long have you known _you_ were number one?"

With a shrug, Craig looks down at the list, rereading it for what feels like the zillionth time. As incredulous as Clyde sounded, it was nothing compared to how Craig had felt when he'd first seen his name written at the top, a little pink heart dotting the i. He'd been absolutely stunned, and had actually just about convinced himself that Stan had been bullshitting him about the whole thing just to trick him.

Not only because he was first, either, but also because the placement of some of the other guys – one of the other guys in particular – just didn't seem right to him. He still feels that way, he realizes, frowning as his eyes travel down the page. The only thing forcing him to accept that this list is, in fact, the truth – both back then and now, here, in his room – is Cartman being last.

Maybe his being number one was why Stan had entrusted him, of all people, with the list. Maybe he just figured Craig would be the least likely to care and cause Clydelike chaos, given his penchant for liking things nice and boring all the time. He _did_ care, of course, but not in the same way that most of the other guys would, not for the same reasons.

"Token's here," Clyde announces, just as Craig's front doorbell rings. He types out a message on his phone, and a second later the sound of the door opening and closing is heard, Token appearing in Craig's bedroom doorway soon after.

"Hey," he says, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow as he takes in the disastrous state of the room. "Didn't find it yet?"

"Fucking look at this!" Clyde snatches the list out of Craig's hands before he has a chance to speak, waving it in the air. Craig rolls his eyes; honestly, Clyde's flair for the dramatic could be so goddamn irritating.

Token steps into the room, carefully maneuvering around the piles of junk that have accumulated in his friends' search for a specific blue notebook. "Fucking look at what now?" he asks, taking a seat beside Clyde on Craig's bed.

"Nothing important," Craig says, a weird queasy feeling rising in his stomach as Clyde sits up and holds the sheet of paper out to Token.

He shifts awkwardly, suddenly wishing he'd never shown Clyde; more than that, even, wishing he'd never found the stupid thing at all. Craig, for all his unshakeable indifference and tough guy bravado, _hated_ attention. Nothing made him more uncomfortable than when he was the center of anything, with all eyes on him. It was another one of those things about him that nobody knew, and that included all three of his best friends, two of which had their eyes on him even now.

"Oh, fuck you, nothing important." It's Clyde's turn to roll his eyes and Token just snickers. "Do you know how many chicks you could've gotten if you'd fucking told me about this?"

 _Who fucking cares_ , is what Craig wants to say, but he just clenches his jaw and settles for flipping the two of them off.

"He has a point," Token agrees offhandedly as he continues to scan the list. "Wait, wasn't I second on the other one too?"

"Yeah," Clyde says, reaching over to point at the names. "A lot of us stayed the same or only moved a couple places. Like see?" He taps the paper with one finger. "Tweek was eighth on the fake one and he went down to tenth here."

"Look, it was eight fucking years ago, Christ!" Craig doesn't mean to yell, really, and he knows that this reaction is just going to invite more attention that he doesn't want. But at Clyde's words, the queasy feeling gets worse and he wants to just grab the list back and shred the thing into tiny bits of confetti. Suddenly claustrophobic amid the mountains of material memories around him, he stands abruptly, kicking a pile of junk into his closet harder than he should but refusing to outwardly acknowledge how much kicking the edge of a chemistry textbook with your bare foot hurts. "How the fuck do you even remember that anyway?"

The same lock of hair from earlier falls into his eyes again and he moves across the room, to his dresser, to grab his hat. Seriously, he _really_ needs a haircut.

"Are you kidding?" Token looks up and shakes his head. "Have you met Clyde? He remembers the most useless shit."

"Not useless," Clyde protests, a slight whine to his voice.

Token just looks at him. "What was my locker combination in seventh grade?"

WIth a groan of defeat, Clyde mumbles, "Fourteen, twenty-six, nine."

"Exactly." Token hands the list back to Clyde and leans back against the wall. "Useless."

"Completely useless," Craig mutters, pulling his hat on so that it covers every stray bit of hair.

Never mind the fact that he remembers the first version of the list perfectly as well. It's also completely irrelevant that he's spent a fair amount of time crafting his own version of it, and a plethora of other lists over the years.

It started not long after all of the drama with the girls' list. The four of them – Craig, Clyde, Token, and Tweek – had been hanging out in Token's basement, watching some awful movie, the way they did every Saturday night. Someone had suggested ranking all of the characters from best to worst. Craig can't definitively say whose idea it had been, but if he had to venture a guess he would say Clyde, who hadn't shut up about lists ever since the incident. He also can't entirely remember why they'd decided to go ahead and do it, all he remembers is that they did.

The thing was, once they got started making their own lists, Craig actually found himself legitimately enjoying it. Sitting there with his friends, coming up with a completely random topic and debating the hell out of it for hours at a time; it had provided a fuckton of entertainment, far more than the terrible movies they still put on in the background once list-making had taken over as the primary Saturday night activity.

In just under two years, they'd put together hundreds of lists, about everything and anything they could think of. They had a list dedicated to the cheesiest horror movies of the 1980s, a list ranking all the restaurants in South Park, a list of all the reasons Cartman was clearly secretly in love with Kyle, a list of all the reasons Kyle would be completely justified in killing Cartman, a top ten list of Jimmy's best jokes, and so many more that Craig can't even remember. Token, who had the neatest handwriting of all of them, was the designated "scribe"; he would enter each list neatly in a notebook that Craig had swiped from his dad's study – something he'd do any time they needed a new one.

At the end of sixth grade, the new Xbox came out and of course, Token was one of the first kids to get one. Saturday nights were suddenly all about beating each other up in Mortal Kombat or Marvel vs. Capcom or whatever ass-kicking game was popular at the time, rather than making lists. But just because it was no longer a weekly group activity, that didn't mean Craig stopped doing it.

He'd kept going, and even now, he has notebooks filled with lists hidden all around his room. Hidden, because, once again, it's nobody else's business what he thinks about. His own personal lists are about a lot of things, but most of them have one thing in common: they are about the things Craig would never, ever tell anyone else, not even his best friends.

He'd kept all the original notebooks too, and in fact, one of those notebooks was exactly what he had been tearing his closet apart for. Clyde and Token had made a bet the night before about an old list of the best Keanu Reeves movies, and they needed to find it to see who owed who twenty dollars.

" _You're_ useless," is all Clyde can come up with in response, and both Token and Craig just roll their eyes. Comebacks are definitely not Clyde's forte. In a very obvious attempt at deflection, he casts a sullen look in Craig's direction and adds, "You can't even find a dumb notebook."

Craig throws a middle finger up at him as Token says with a grin, "Well, if it's just a dumb notebook, we don't even need to find it. You can just give me my money now."

Clyde turns to Token, abandoning the list on the bed behind him. "Dude, no way!" He slides off the bed and lays on his stomach on the floor, his head once again disappearing into the abyss of underneath the bed. "There's no way we said Constantine was his best movie."

"Pretty sure _you_ said it, and then cried until we let you win." Token's response elicits a muffled whine and Craig lets out a snort of laughter, unable to help himself. Token raises his eyebrows at Craig. "I'm right, right?"

Shrugging, Craig says, "Sounds like Clyde to me." He returns to his former position in front of his closet and leans his right shoulder against the wall; frowning into the depths he tries to think of where the hell the notebook in question could possibly be.

"Hey!" Clyde exclaims from underneath the bed. "I think I found –" There is a loud thud and he interrupts himself with an, "Ow, fuck," then continues, "I think I found something!"

Token leans forward, talking to Clyde's legs that are sticking out into the middle of the room. "Is it the right one?"

"Dunno," Clyde says. "There's just like, a hole in the bottom of the mattress and there's a notebook in there!"

In that moment, for Craig, it feels like time both freezes and accelerates at the same time. He turns back towards his bed, where Clyde is emerging from underneath, holding a green notebook. He sees it happening almost faster than it should, and he's completely unable to move or even get out the "No!" that he so desperately wants to shout. His stomach churns, the queasy feeling from before exponentially worse in the face of what is happening. If either Clyde or Token looked at him right now, they would see panic reflected in his gray eyes; his hands, palms suddenly slick with sweat, curl into fists.

Even as Clyde climbs back up onto the bed to sit beside Token, and flips the notebook open, Craig is frozen – and completely, utterly screwed. All he can do is stand there and watch as Clyde, his best friend since preschool, looks down and reads something he was never supposed to read.

"'Things I' –" Clyde stops. He turns his head, his stunned eyes meeting Craig's, which are just as wide.

"'Things I Love' –" Token doesn't get much farther than Clyde before also just staring at their friend, albeit with less shock in his expression.

The room is silent, so silent all three teenagers can clearly hear the wind blowing outside, though all the windows in the Tucker house are closed. Craig is the first one to break eye contact, pulling his hat down farther onto his head and all but collapsing into a sitting position on the floor. Weakly, he holds up his arm to flip the other two off, but there's no real meaning behind the gesture. He's numb, with the exception of the tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

As far as his friends know, Craig isn't, and has never been, a crier. To them, he's always handled negative emotions the same way, with irritability and middle fingers. Even in fifth grade, when he'd broken his arm falling out of Clyde's terribly constructed treehouse, he hadn't cried when it happened; he'd just flipped off the treehouse and walked back to his house alone. He'd cried at his own house, of course – breaking your arm fucking _hurts_ – but only when he was out of sight of everyone else. As stupid as it is, his reputation matters to him, and always has.

But now? Now Craig figures what the hell, it's all over, his facade of indifference shattered because of one stupid list in one stupid notebook that clearly hadn't been hidden as well as he'd thought. And so he leans his head on the end of his bed, letting the tears drip out of his eyes and down his face.

"Craig?" Clyde says tentatively, the sight of Craig crumpled against the wall one of the most terrifying things he's ever seen. "Um." Not having thought through what he should say, he looks to Token for help.

Token looks down at the notebook in Clyde's lap again, and then raises his eyes in Craig's direction. "Honestly," he says, his voice calm and level as always, "I thought the shrieks would be number one."

"What?" Clyde tilts his head in confusion, and Token waves him off impatiently before continuing.

"Eye color is just a little cliche, you know?"

At Token's words, Craig presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, stopping the flow of tears, and sits up a little bit straighter. "What?" he says, echoing Clyde, his voice a little more nasally than usual.

Token takes the notebook from Clyde and studies it for a second before speaking again. "Yeah, and I didn't think the thermos would be up so high." He shakes his head at Clyde, shushing him before he can say a word.

"Wait – what?" Craig lifts his head and pushes his hat up a bit so he can see again.

Token shrugs, holding up the notebook. "Nine years of friendship, moron. What, you think we're stupid?"

"Wait, you knew?" Clyde says exactly the words that Craig is thinking. Both of them are staring at Token now, identically slack-jawed and dumbfounded.

"Seriously, you didn't?" Token asks Clyde, before shooting Craig a grin. "Okay, wait, take two: nine years, you think _I'm_ stupid?" He tosses the notebook onto the bed. "You're a lot of things, Craig, but you're not a robot, for Christ's sake."

"Fuck," is all Craig can think to say, his heart rate slowing as he realizes that neither of his friends are going to make fun of him or run screaming from his room. And then again: " _Fuck_."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Clyde's question is directed to both Craig and Token, and it's the latter who answers first.

"It wasn't my business." Token leans back again. "And besides, we're not all gossipers like you, Clyde."

"Wait, so you didn't –" Craig clears his throat. "You didn't tell...anyone else, did you?"

"He doesn't know, no." Token shakes his head as Craig breathes a sigh of relief. "I think you should say something, though, now that we're finally talking about this."

"Who says we're talking about this," Craig mutters, trying to ignore the anxiety that hits at Token's suggestion. He looks down, pulling on the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Someone who's seen the way you look at him every day since at least seventh grade," Token fires back. "Who also happens to be the same someone who's seen the way _he's_ looked at _you_ for almost as long."

"Fuck you, you're lying." Craig's heart is racing again. No way. There's no fucking way.

"I'm not." Token glances beside him. "I'd say ask Clyde, but he doesn't notice shit, just remembers useless garbage."

"Hey!" Clyde whines.

"I'm serious, though, Craig. Do you really think I'm that much of an asshole I'd lie to you about this?" Token asks.

Craig, at the moment, has no idea what to think. He looks up at the ceiling, where there are still some remnants of whatever he'd used to stick glow-in-the-dark stars and planets up there when he was ten. He tries to organize his thoughts and make sense of what has just transpired in the last five minutes. Completely failing at that, he says, to the ceiling, "The fuck would I even say?"

"Dude!" Clyde says eagerly, excited by the prospect of being able to exercise his – in his opinion – absolutely fantastic matchmaking skills. "I can totally help you!"

"What are you gonna do?" Token says, laughing at Clyde's enthusiasm. "Make them watch Constantine together?"

"I didn't say it was the best, shut up!" Clyde shoves Token a little bit and rolls his eyes. To Craig, he says, "I can help teach you to flirt!"

"Oh, _please."_ Token snorts. "I'm sorry, Clyde, but you're not exactly a Romeo, here."

"No, just look, listen," Clyde says, waving his arm in the air. "It's so easy, you just have to find the right pickup line, like…" He frowns as he thinks for a second, and then: "Oh! Like you just have to be like, 'Coffee's a pick-me-up, right? Well, I'll pick you up!'"

"That doesn't even make any sense." Token says after a few seconds of trying to work out what the hell Clyde was even trying to say. "Jesus Christ, no wonder you're still single." He turns to Craig, who has been watching his friends during this exchange, looking very much like he would just like to shoot himself right in the face for getting himself into this in the first place. "Look, as the only one of the three of us actually _in_ a relationship–"

"Douchebag," Clyde grumbles, but Token ignores him.

"–I feel like I should be here to help too, especially if Clyde is going to tell you to say dumbass shit like that."

"You're dumbass shit," Clyde says, again proving his ineptitude with comebacks.

"Whatever." Token waves him off, still looking at Craig, who is still looking at the ceiling. "So? What do you think? Gonna take a chance and do something risky for once?"

Craig slowly lowers his gaze from the ceiling to look at the two of his best friends sitting on his bed. Both of them are looking at him; Clyde's expression is hopeful, Token's more of curiosity with a hint of a challenge in his eyes.

He lets his eyes drift down, to the notebook lying open between them. Token hadn't been that far off when he'd said seventh grade; it had been halfway through sixth when Craig had figured out his feelings. At first he'd tried to ignore them, to make them go away, but as the years went on the feelings just grew stronger and it was impossible to pretend they didn't exist. So he'd taken to hiding them, and honestly, that was getting exhausting.

Despite all of the reasons he knows he shouldn't – reasons that, if Clyde were to turn a few pages in that green notebook, he would find a list of – Craig finds himself actually wanting to take the risk. So his dad would probably disown him, so what? It's not like he and any of his family are particularly close as it is. And yeah, he'd have to deal with everyone at school when they found out, but he's had years of practice handling bullshit drama on behalf of Clyde, who's always had a tendency to get himself into trouble.

Thinking about it now, the only reason Craig can see really being a deterrent is if things were to not work out. But then there's always the flip side of, well, what if they do?

Knowing himself as well as he does, if he were left to try to do this on his own he'd fuck it up before anyone even noticed anything was happening. But with Clyde and Token sitting here, in his room, offering their help and basically telling him that he definitely, absolutely has a really, _really_ good shot…

Craig clears his throat again, and says, before he can change his mind, "I'm not using any dumbass pickup lines."

* * *

**_Things I Love About Tweek_ **

_1\. Green eyes are fucking hot  
_ _2\. How his hair always looks like he just got electrocuted  
_ _3\. The 'Tweek shriek'  
_ _4\. His smile  
_ _5\. The way he carries that fucking thermos everywhere  
_ _6\. The way he laughs  
_ _7\. How he's so nice to everyone all the time, even me  
_ _8\. The conspiracy theory shit_  
_9\. He can play piano  
_ _10\. Just...fucking everything_


	2. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably be sure to mention that updates won't always be this fast, but I've been so excited about chapter 2 that I couldn't help it. Thanks for all the kudos and comments so far! I love you guys. 

* * *

"Never have I ever been to Vegas."

"What!?" Startled, Tweek raises his head from where he is crouched on the floor, immediately losing track of the number of Splenda packets he'd been counting. With a small sigh, he begins gathering up the piles of sweetener scattered around him to throw them all back in the box and start over for the third time.

Kenny leans against the front counter, his back to the nearly empty coffee shop, and repeats, "Never have I ever been to Vegas." He grins down at Tweek expectantly, easily tossing the clipboard he'd been tasked with holding from hand to hand. "Come on, it's been dead in here for the last two hours, and you can't train me on making anything until there's someone to make it for, right?"

Tweek moves to scoop up an armful of Splenda and loses his balance, tipping over onto the black rubber floor mat with an, "Agh!" Scrambling to his feet, he brushes loose Splenda dust and fallen coffee grounds off his clothes and adjusts his white apron before answering Kenny. "I've never been to Vegas! Jesus Christ, that's mafia territory!" He shudders a little bit at the thought.

"Fair enough," Kenny says with a laugh, having witnessed enough Tweek paranoia in school over the years to know not to ask too many questions. He places the clipboard in his hand on top of his shaggy blond hair, balancing it on his head as he stretches his arms towards the ceiling. "Your turn."

They're interrupted by the shrill sound of beeping from behind them; just like a sleeper agent, the noise triggers Tweek into action. Kenny crosses his arms around the clipboard, an amused sparkle in his blue eyes as he watches. He's seen this process happen every half hour since nine o'clock this morning, but Tweek's snap into #1 Barista mode hasn't gotten any less impressive. It's almost like watching something professionally choreographed, like Swan Lake but with caffeine and no swans.

Tweek whirls around, silencing and resetting the timer with three pushes of a button. He grabs one of the two heavy industrial-sized coffee urns that is sitting on the brewer, lifting it like it weighs nothing; though when he leans it carefully on the sink and opens the spout to let it drain, it becomes apparent that the 42-cup urn had been completely full. While the old coffee fills the sink, Tweek, nothing but a blond blur at this point, empties and refills the filter basket with grounds, slipping it back into place on the machine just as the urn finishes draining. He repeats the process with the second urn, finishing just as a second timer goes off.

The timers had been the first thing Tweek had explained to Kenny when he'd started training him this morning. There were five, all set for different intervals depending on what they were for. There was one for brewing coffee, one for changing the sanitizer water, one for switching out steaming pitchers, one for doing a walkthrough of the cafe to make sure it was clean and tidy, and one that was just for Tweek, to remind him to take a second to stop and breathe.

Kenny thought it was a little counterproductive to have a timer startle you into calming down, but again, this was Tweek, and he didn't question the logic.

Once Tweek had gone through the whole routine, which included putting away all the Splenda that had still been scattered on the floor, Kenny says, again, "Your turn. What have you never done?"

Tweek's eyes dart around the café as he thinks. Sundays at his parents' coffee shop aren't usually overly hectic by any means, which was why he'd considered it the perfect day to start Kenny's training. This Sunday in particular, however, was almost painfully slow, so Tweek had decided to get a head start on Monday's weekly inventory count while Kenny manned the register. He was right, there was nothing else to be taught until someone actually came in and ordered something.

In the first three hours of Kenny's first shift, they had already worked through the entire little schedule Tweek had written out on his phone the night before at Token's house, while Clyde and Token had been arguing about their old Keanu Reeves list. The corners of his mouth turn upward slightly, just the hint of a smile on his face as his thoughts drift to his friends.

They've been a group for just about ten years, and it's still anyone's guess as to exactly why or how they've all managed to get, and remain, so close. Each one of them is so different from the rest that it's almost as if they were randomly selected by a music producer to fit stereotypes in a boyband.

There's Tweek, the Shy One: twitchy but not insanely so, much more comfortable at work at the coffee shop or in small groups than anywhere else, and hesitant to speak up and draw attention to himself, keeping certain things – like his weird love of 90s boybands – extremely hidden from the rest of the gang.

Clyde, the Cute One: not _stupid_ per se, but definitely more likely to make a college admissions clerk say, "aww" rather than offer him an academic scholarship, mainly due to his big brown eyes and huge heart, his loyalty to and love for his friends knowing no bounds.

Token, the Older Brother figure: the calming presence, primarily responsible for keeping the group out of trouble – no small feat considering that to do so he has to take into account Tweek's anxiety, Clyde's tendency to unintentionally cause drama by just being Clyde, and, perhaps most importantly, the short fuse of their fourth member.

Craig, the resident Bad Boy: all middle fingers and attitude, completely, perpetually, out of fucks to give.

Of course, everyone knows that all reputable boybands also have the Heartthrob, the number one, the leader and face of the group. The Heartthrob is always the center of attention, in the middle of every group photo and more often than not acts as the official spokesperson in any interview-like situation. With only four members already so well-suited to their roles, it would seem that the only option to round out the group to full boyband status would be to pick up a fifth person somewhere along the way.

Tweek, though, has spent a lot of time thinking about these kinds of things, not just in terms of boybands. One of his favorite things to do is categorize the people he knows, based on everything from colors to blends of coffee to fictional characters; because of this, he feels that he has a very good grasp of who his friends are, and has come to the conclusion that there's a little bit of Heartthrob in all of them. Although, just maybe, a little bit more in one of them in particular.

Craig and Clyde had been friends first, all the way back in preschool. The way Clyde tells it, it all started because at snack time one day Craig had dropped his cup of Goldfish crackers on the floor. Clyde, feeling so bad for him because he was clearly heartbroken at the loss of his snack, had decided that he had to be a hero and fix things. If you ask him, he claims that he had managed to sneak past the teachers into the preschool kitchen, climb up the counter to the highest cupboard, retrieve the bag of Goldfish, and return to his seat, all completely unnoticed. Craig, of course, had been so grateful for Clyde's willingness to risk everything just for him, that he'd immediately claimed Clyde as his Best Friend Forever, and it had been that way ever since.

Craig's version of the story has Clyde being the one to drop his crackers and then burst into tears, sobbing until four-year-old Craig had had enough and just shoved his own cup across the table at him to shut him up. According to Craig, it was at that point that Clyde had started following him around all the time, having decided that Craig's willingness to sacrifice a dollar store cracker snack was the ultimate sign of friendship.

They'd picked Token up somewhere around the beginning of third grade, after getting put together for a creative writing assignment where they were supposed to create their own Mad Lib type of thing. Each group was to write a short story, remove some key words, and then present it to the class, who would be the ones to fill in the blanks.

Clyde wanted to make the story about the class gerbil, Lemmiwinks, to try to score extra points with Mr. Garrison. Craig had, in no uncertain terms, told him that that idea was stupid and that they should write a story about Red Racer because at least that was interesting. They'd argued for a good ten minutes about it until Token, quiet up until that point, had suggested that they write an alternate universe Red Racer story where he gets transformed into a gerbil and has to win a race against a guinea pig in order to be changed back.

Clyde and Craig had shared a look, their ability to communicate nonverbally proof that regardless of whose version of their origin story was the truth, they _were_ best friends. Craig had nodded his approval at Token's suggestion, while Clyde took up another five minutes gushing about how it was the most genius idea he'd ever heard. And thus, they became three.

Tweek's inclusion in the group was perhaps the most surprising, given that it had come about after The Fight, halfway through third grade. Granted, the only reason he and Craig had been beating the hell out of each other in the first place was because they'd been coerced into it, not because of any real animosity between the two of them; but still, becoming best friends with someone you'd punched in the face not twelve hours earlier was not, in Tweek's opinion, the usual way of things.

He had barely ever spoken to not only Craig, but Clyde and Token as well, in the years they'd been in class together; and yet, once he and Craig had been discharged from the hospital, suddenly all three of them were talking to him constantly, picking him for group projects and teams in gym class, and inviting him over to their houses to hang out all the time.

Token had told him that he had the best right hook he'd ever seen. Clyde wouldn't stop talking about moments of The Fight like he was a sports commentator going over replays of game-winning moves. Craig would rarely talk about The Fight itself; Token had theorized that it was because Tweek had been the clear winner and Craig's pride couldn't handle that. Clyde had argued that, actually, Craig had won and he was just too humble to make a big deal out of it.

Token, of course, had needed to counter that with the claim that Craig couldn't be humble if his life depended on it, and then he and Clyde were yelling at each other at the tops of their lungs outside Raisins.

Tweek had been watching them, his eyes wide, convinced that he'd just managed to break up a lifelong friendship by merely existing, when Craig had tapped him on the shoulder and said, loudly, "We'll just have to beat them up to see who does it better, right, Tweek?"

Tweek had only stared at him, not sure if he was serious or not, because Jesus _Christ_ , they'd just gotten out of the hospital, he was covered in scrapes and bruises and Craig's eye was still swollen shut. He wanted to fight again _now_?

It wasn't until Craig had leaned a little closer, nudged Tweek's shoulder, and grinned, the first time Tweek had ever seen him smile, that he realized he was being facetious.

"Come on," Craig had said, gesturing to the other two, his voice still unreasonably loud to ensure he was overheard by them. "I'll take Clyde, he can't fight for shit."

"Hey!"

And the quartet was officially formed. They'd hang out with other people from time to time, sometimes someone outside the group would make a cameo at one of their weekly movie nights, but they all knew that when it really came down to it, they were each other's best friends for life.

Despite all their differences, despite all logic, really, the four of them had managed to cultivate an unbreakable bond. Tweek, for the first time in his life, had found people he could be himself with, who didn't judge him for the twitches or the outbursts or all of the other reasons he'd felt like such an outcast for so long.

_Most_ of the other reasons. Tweek amends his thought, his small smile fading as a twitch makes his head jerk a little bit to the left. They couldn't judge him for what they didn't know, after all. Having real friends had contributed largely towards improving and building his self-confidence, but he was still Tweek; even without the curse of extreme anxiety, he wasn't the type of person to overshare all of his thoughts and feelings. He wasn't Clyde, who cried at the drop of a hat and said every thought that he had as soon as he had it.

The smile returns as he thinks of something, inspired by the night before; his green eyes brighten and he looks back at Kenny, who still has the clipboard on his head. "Never have I ever seen the end of The Matrix," he says.

"How is that even possible?" Kenny tilts his head questioningly and the clipboard slides off, a few of the papers attached to it fluttering loose as it hits the floor. He leans down to retrieve them. "Isn't that like, Clyde's favorite movie?"

Tweek nods, moving over to the espresso machine and pushing the button for a single shot. He places a shot glass underneath the spout. Over the grinding and grumbling sounds the machine makes, he says, "He makes us watch it at least once a month, but I can never stay awake until the end."

"Getting me on a technicality." Kenny nods approvingly, placing the clipboard and papers onto the counter and coming over to stand beside Tweek at the espresso machine. "Sneaky. I like it."

The shot glass fills with espresso, the sight and smell of the liquid crack making Tweek's mouth water. Resisting the urge to drink it himself, he picks up the shot glass and holds it out to Kenny.

Kenny makes a face. "I don't want that." He uses two fingers to make the sign of a cross and practically shouts, "Away, demon!" A cough from the cafe makes them both look up to see one of the few customers in the shop, one of the Sunday school teachers, looking at them disapprovingly over the top of her coffee mug. Kenny flashes his most charming smile in her direction.

Tweek doesn't relent. "It's Never Have I Ever, isn't it?" His smile turns a little more mischievous and he steps a little closer to Kenny. "Haven't you and Clyde watched The Matrix together?" He knows they have, Clyde had mentioned it last night when he was arguing against having ever even liked Constantine, the movie Token was insisting he'd chosen as the best Keanu movie ever.

"Sure, but –"

Another step. "So you have to do a shot."

"Jesus Christ," Kenny mutters, putting on a really good show of being annoyed but clearly not at all. "When did you get this sassy, Tweek?" He reaches out for the shot glass. "Craig's really rubbed off on you."

A wave of panic washes over Tweek at the words, and an involuntary tremble passes through his whole body. He accidentally drops the shot glass just as Kenny's fingers brush against it. With a yelp, he all but leaps away from the area where it falls, hitting the floor and shattering into tiny pieces. "Jesus Christ!"

Kenny, who had also instinctively backed way the hell away from the shot glass's crash site, lest some weird South Park shit happen and he die that way, says, "Huh." He looks at Tweek thoughtfully.

Tweek is still shaking, and he closes his eyes, trying to shut out the world around him for just a second so he can get some semblance of control over himself. He backs up slowly until he hits the edge of the back counter and curls his fingers around it, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths. Pulling from the list of techniques to come down from a panic attack that he'd been given by his childhood therapist, he imagines that there's a giant mug of steaming hot coffee in front of him. _Inhale the scent of coffee, exhale to cool it off._ Over and over until he can feel his heart rate start to slow.

The bell above the coffee shop's front door chimes and Kenny gracefully pivots on one foot so he can greet the approaching customer. Or in this case, customers. "Afternoon, hot stuff," he says, winking at Clyde, who is the first to reach the front counter.

Clyde grins, always happy to be complimented no matter where the compliment is coming from. "Hey!" he says as Token and Craig catch up to him. "How's your first day going?"

In answer, Kenny does his best impersonation of a Raisins waitress, adopting a ditzy Valley Girl voice. "Oh my _God_ , everything here is so boring, thank God you guys came in!" Returning to his normal tone, he continues breezily, "Tweek just tried to kill me."

"You probably deserved it," Craig mutters under his breath. He's hanging back behind Clyde and Token, his arms crossed, wanting to be anywhere but inside Tweek Bros. Coffee at the moment. Clyde had insisted they put Operation: Creek into action immediately, and now that they were here, Craig was nervous as fuck. Clyde had promised he'd start him off slow, but Craig was willing to bet Stripe the 13th that Clyde's definition of slow wasn't anywhere close to his own.

Tweek had opened one eye at the mention of his name. "I didn't try to kill you!" He reaches up, pulling on some of his bright blond hair. "Agh!"

Craig shifts in place and does his best to keep his expression blank, but _fuck_ , that was cute.

"Nah, Tweek, I get it," Kenny says with a shrug. "It's like the Highlander of blond coffee peddlers here." He hops into a fighting stance and proclaims, "There can be only one!"

"Ooh, Highlander!" Clyde says, momentarily forgetting the entire reason he'd dragged Craig over to the coffee shop. "Can we watch that next Saturday?"

Token rolls his eyes. "Sure, if you can beat me on our biology quiz this week, we can watch Highlander."

Clyde's face falls. "Wait, what? We have a quiz this week?"

"And that answers your first question." Token raises his hand and waves, the first one of the three to directly acknowledge Tweek. "Hey Tweek, Kenny giving you any trouble?"

Tweek shakes his head. "Do you guys want something?"

He means a drink, of course, but his words bring Clyde back to his task at hand. He lifts a foot, swinging it behind him to lightly tap Craig's leg. "Yeah, actually, we're on our way to Token's but Craig was wondering–" He moves to the side so Craig is no longer hiding behind him. "–what was it, Craig?"

If looks could kill, Clyde Donovan would be but a distant memory. Craig can feel the tingling behind his eyes again and he clenches his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to chill himself the fuck out and not laser blast Clyde into oblivion. The attention is all on him now, and he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's supposed to say. This was what Clyde called taking it slow?

"Uh," he says, all words of the English language having disappeared from his vocabulary at the moment. He looks up at the menu board on the wall, determinedly _not_ looking at any of his friends – or Kenny, though he can definitely feel all of their eyes on him. His mind is screaming at him to say something, to say anything, and he desperately tries to find a sentence that makes sense. "What – what the fuck – is ristretto mean?" He cringes, both at the halting way his words had come out and the fact that he'd fucked up a word.

Tweek, completely oblivious to Craig's internal struggle and subsequent butchering of his sentence, launches into an explanation of all the different types of espresso shots. Craig lowers his eyes to watch Tweek as he listens, more to the way Tweek says the words than the actual words themselves; when Tweek talks about coffee, he's in his element, he's happy, and it shows. There are few things that can compare to a happy Tweek, in Craig's expert opinion.

Clyde nudges Craig with his elbow, and Craig tears his gaze away from Tweek to look at him, a little bit less death-threat to his glare than before, but not much. Clyde is beaming at him, and he motions for Craig to move closer. Reluctantly, Craig obliges and Clyde whispers, "I totally see it now!"

Gritting his teeth, Craig whispers back, "What the fuck were you trying to do?"

Tweek, in the middle of the definition of _macchiato_ , sees the two of them whispering in each other's ears and stops mid-sentence, completely losing his train of thought. His eye twitches, and a small growl, an "rrghh!" sound, escapes his lips. He unconsciously tugs on the bottom of his apron.

"Wait, don't stop there," Kenny says, making a show of looking disappointed. He hops up to sit on the counter, leaning against the display case of pastries. "I was learning Italian!"

"Still trying to impress Ferrari?" Token, ever the observant one, asks, in order to put all the attention on Kenny and away from Clyde and Craig who are both acting like idiots.

"Dude, she finally agreed to go to the movies with me tonight!" Kenny says eagerly. "I figure if I can learn to speak her language she'll fall in love with me like _that_!" He snaps his fingers.

"You know she's not actually Italian, right?" Token points out. "Her family's from like, Nebraska or some shit."

"Kansas," Clyde says confidently, having paid attention as soon as the conversation had turned to one of his favorite Raisins girls.

"What the fuck do they speak in Kansas?" Kenny asks, speaking again before anyone can offer an answer. "Whatever, I'll just have to up the charm level." He does the fluttery eyelash thing again and blows a kiss to the trio in front of the counter. "Who can resist me?"

Token starts counting on his fingers. "Bebe, Wendy, me, Stan, Lola –"

"–Christophe!" Clyde adds enthusiastically, proud of himself for contributing.

Kenny holds up both hands, palms facing outward. "Okay, fine, leave me with some of my pride, Jesus." He shoots a grin in Tweek's direction. "Tweek, your friends are such dicks."

The beep of a timer rescues Tweek from having to confirm or deny the accusation, and he begins the coffee shop ballet again as the rest of his friends continue talking.

"What movie are you taking Ferrari to?" Clyde wanders over to the pastry case and looks inside, his stomach growling. "We should all go to Raisins when you guys are done work."

"Some Ben Affleck shit, I don't know," Kenny says. "I let her pick. It starts at seven I think."

"You close at five, right?" Clyde calls to Tweek as the latter rushes by carrying the bucket of sanitizer water to the back room.

"Five on Sundays, nine every other day," Craig says from behind Clyde.

"Sweet." When Tweek emerges from the back, Clyde says, "Tweek! We're going to Raisins when you're done, okay?"

"On a Sunday?!" Tweek stops, the clean water in the bucket he's holding sloshing over the sides and spilling all over the legs of his pants and his shoes. "Agh!" He jumps, which only causes the same thing to happen again.

Craig has to pretend to yawn so he can smile behind his hand.

"Kenny needs us to help him impress Ferrari," Token says by way of explanation before Clyde can offer a ridiculous reason as to why they need to go to Raisins tonight.

"Oh, Christ, that's so much pressure!" Tweek lifts the bucket of water onto the counter and resets the timer.

"No, you just have to talk me up!" Kenny says, totally on board with this idea. "Just tell her all about how awesome I am, hell, maybe even let me flirt with you a little." He raises his eyebrows suggestively at Tweek. "We can make her jealous."

Tweek lets out a, "Waghh!" at the thought, and Craig puts his hand behind his back, unable to resist the sudden urge to flip off Kenny but having the presence of mind to hide it.

"Okay, well, we should let you guys actually work, then," Clyde says, having accomplished the first phase of his genius plan. "We'll meet you back here around five."

Kenny salutes the three of them. "Aye aye!"

"You probably shouldn't speak pirate around her either," Token advises as he, Clyde, and Craig head towards the exit.

"Noted." Kenny mimes writing something in the air with an imaginary pen.

As soon as the door falls shut behind Tweek's trio of friends, he begins cleaning up the fallen shards of shot glass, being careful not to cut himself and bleed all over the floor. Kenny hops off the countertop and saunters over to where Tweek is kneeling. If Tweek was looking up, he'd see the devilish grin on Kenny's face.

"So, it's my turn, right?" he says.

"Huh?! Oh," Tweek says, remembering that they'd been playing a game. He picks up the biggest piece of shot glass gingerly, like it's going to sprout teeth and bite him.

"Never have I ever…" Kenny pauses, drawing out the last word and waiting until Tweek makes eye contact with him before finishing. "...been in love with Craig fucking Tucker."

Tweek's heart stops for a good ten seconds before resuming beating so quickly it feels like one continuous vibration. His eyes widen, and as much as he wants to look away, he's frozen in place. "Guh!" he squeaks, the only sound he can make at the moment.

"Don't worry," Kenny says, shaking his head and sitting down across from Tweek on the floor. "What, you think I'm going to judge you? Kyle Broflovski was my first boyfriend for fuck's sake." He reaches down and starts picking up smaller pieces of shot glass.

Tweek blinks furiously, looking down and trying to process his current situation. His hand trembles and he closes his fingers around the broken chunk of glass without thinking, the jagged edge digging into his skin. "Jesus!"

"Careful," Kenny says, both concern and amusement in his eyes. "Craig'll be pissed at me if they show up later and you're injured."

Tweek whips his head up. "What do you mean?!" His voice is rising dangerously in volume and he fights hard to calm down. _Inhale the scent of coffee, exhale to cool off the coffee_. The panic attack threatening to consume him right now is like none other he's ever felt, and of course it's not – hearing his biggest secret, the thing he has been fighting so hard to _keep_ secret for the last six years, spoken out loud has pushed some sort of big red internal panic button. His short-term memory glitching like a broken video game, he completely forgets his first question and wails, "Oh God, you're not going to tell him are you?!"

"Tweek," Kenny says, reaching out to touch Tweek's shoulder. "Breathe, Jesus Christ. I'm an asshole but I'm not that kind of asshole." He smiles, encouragingly, and adds, "You should, though."

Tweek gulps down a lungful of air before staring at Kenny aghast. "I can't do _that_!"

"Sure you can!" Kenny says. "It's easy! Way easier since he already likes you too."

" _What_?!"

"Oh," Kenny says innocently, the sparkle in his eyes brightening. "Did you not know?"

Tweek covers his eyes with both hands and shakes his head, blond hair flying. "No! He doesn't! He can't!"

"Yes, he does, he absolutely can," Kenny replies. "It's a good thing you've got me in your corner, Christ, Tweek, don't you notice anything?"

Peeking through his fingers, Tweek says, voice muffled, "In my corner?"

Kenny nods, getting to his feet and executing a ridiculous-looking low bow. "Kenny McCormick, at your service," he says. "Matchmaker extraordinaire, here to help you get into Craig's pants, assuming, of course, that's where you want to be."

Behind his hands, Tweek blinks again. The thing about Kenny, the thing he'd learned forever and half ago, was that though he was often much more dramatic than he needed to be, he was very rarely _wrong_. The gears in Tweek's brain turn wildly, running through all the possible scenarios that could happen if he accepted Kenny's offer. If Kenny was wrong, he would lose Craig as a friend, and probably Clyde, and Token soon after that. If Kenny was wrong, Tweek would be shoved right back into the land of the outcasts.

But, Tweek thinks, his heart pounding in his chest, if Kenny was _right_ …

"Oh, Jesus," he mumbles, making a decision and praying to whatever God was out there that it was the right one. Looking up at Kenny, he swallows nervously and says, voice shaky but sure, "What do I have to do?"

* * *

_Top Ten Best Keanu Reeves Movies_

_1\. Constantine*  
_ _2\. The Matrix  
_ _3\. John Wick  
_ _4\. Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure  
_ _5\. John Wick 2  
_ _6\. Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey  
_ _7\. Speed  
_ _8\. Point Break  
_ _9\. Johnny Mnemonic_  
_10\. Dracula  
_ _* only because Clyde bawled for 15 minutes about it like a baby_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I can do Tweek justice for all of you! I'm writing him a bit differently than I have before, so let me know what you think. (Also, special bonus points to anybody who caught the specific boyband stereotypes reference.)


	3. Execution (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 3! Part 1 of chapter 3, technically; I decided to split it up so it wasn't ridiculously long, so if you get to the end and want more of the current situation, don't worry, I got you. :D

Boasting just under 200 stores, the South Park mall is a surprisingly decent shopping center, given its small mountain town location. It has something for everyone: an Apple store for the techies; a plethora of clothing stores for the fashionably inclined; various book, game, and hobby stores for those who are looking for some escape from their lives; a food court with so many options even South Park's resident fatass has trouble making a choice; a Macy's because everyone knows a building isn't really a mall without a big department store; and the list goes on. It truly is the ultimate one-stop shop.

What the South Park mall is _not_ , Craig has mentioned to Clyde at least four times in the hour they've been here, is Token's house.

"You didn't say anything about the _mall_ ," Craig had said, eyeing the building with disgust as Clyde practically dragged him through the parking lot. He had a death grip on Craig's arm like he thought if he let go Craig would take off sprinting in the opposite direction.

The trouble with being friends with someone since preschool is that by the time you hit your late teens, they know you far too well.

"Well, come on," Clyde had replied, gesturing vaguely to Craig's entire body. "You can't go on your first date looking like that!"

"Shut the fuck up," Craig had hissed, not even registering that he should be mildly offended by Clyde's assessment of his current appearance. A knot of anxiety had materialized in his stomach at Clyde's words, so loud they had nearly echoed throughout the parking lot. He'd instinctively looked around to see if anyone had overheard, but, it being a Sunday afternoon, the area outside the mall was devoid of any people. _Thank God._

Clyde hadn't seemed to really understand what was so wrong with what he had said, and still appears confused even after the third time Token has explained it to him, just a few minutes ago.

"I don't get it," Clyde says now, as the three of them navigate through the first floor of Macy's, bewilderment on his face. "It's not like I said it was his first date with –"

"Just." Token interrupts, coming to a halt in the middle of the denim section. He holds one hand up in the air near Clyde's face, keeping his other arm in front of Craig to stop him lunging at their friend. "Stop. Talking."

"But –"

" _Clyde_ ," Token says, exasperation seeping into his usually mild tone. He motions to Craig, who has two fists raised halfway in the air, looking at Clyde like he's going to murder him in the middle of the Macy's men's clothing department. "Stop being a dumbfuck."

Clyde blinks at both of them, seeming to finally register Craig's obvious discomfort and the fact that he is very close to getting punched in the face. "What?" he says, taking a nervous step backward, his eyes on Craig's fists.

"It's _not_ ," Craig says, his anxious heartbeat thundering in his ears. "a _date_." He almost whispers the last word, and again has the uncontrollable impulse to check the vicinity for eavesdroppers. Again, when he scans his immediate area, it's completely empty, but he remains tense. Not for the first time since agreeing to his friends' help earlier this afternoon, he has the sensation that he's just made a huge fucking mistake.

"Well, okay, not _technically_ , but –"

"Jesus Christ, Clyde." Token throws both of his arms up in the air, accidentally amputating the arm of the mannequin posed behind him. The plastic limb goes flying through the air, landing with a crash on the floor somewhere in a sea of Levi's jeans. "Listen," he says, ignoring the carnage he's caused, reaching out to place both hands on Clyde's shoulders in a _listen-the-fuck-up_ kind of gesture. "Do you remember in sixth grade when Cartman stole your fucking pet rock?"

"Eduardo," Clyde says, nodding. His normally cheery brown eyes darken for just a second, and then a single tear trails down his cheek as he gazes wistfully towards the ceiling. "I painted him in art class."

"Okay, whatever." Token waves his hand impatiently, both at Clyde and Craig when the latter lets out a scoff of derision. "Do you also remember what Cartman made you do to get it back years later?"

The blush that immediately spreads across Clyde's face is evidence that, yes, he does remember. "You said you were never going to bring that up," he whines, shaking his head like it will shake the color right off his cheeks. "I needed Eduardo back!"

"Yeah, okay, but now think about it." Token lifts his hands from Clyde's shoulders, stepping back and continuing forward through Macy's as he speaks. "The story he told everyone, was that true?"

" _No_!" Clyde sputters, following after Token as Craig trails behind the two of them, still looking from side to side, periodically checking for spies. "God, no, why would you even ask that!"

"Because you're an idiot." Token stops as they reach the casual clothing section and leans against a display table of polo shirts. He exhales a loud sigh. "Everyone talked about that for _months_ , and it wasn't even true, right?"

"Uh-huh," Clyde replies, the tiniest glimmer of comprehension igniting in his eyes.

"So imagine someone overheard you say Craig's got a da–" Token pauses as Craig coughs harshly and shakes his head in warning before the full word leaves his mouth. "Imagine someone overheard you," he says instead. "Don't you think they'd wonder who this douchebag finally agreed to hang out with?"

The friendly insult lightens the mood a little bit, but Craig shoots Token a middle finger anyway. His friend just shakes his head, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as it chimes.

Clyde's eyes widen as the realization that Craig might not want rumors about him spread all over town finally breaks through into his brain. "Oh, crap," he says, turning to face Craig with a sniffle. "Dude, I'm sorry," he says earnestly. "I just really want to help you. I guess I wasn't thinking." He blinks again, tears brimming on the edges of his eyelids. "I want you to be happy."

"Fuck's sake," Craig mutters to himself. He sighs, the heavy, world-weary sigh of someone who's known Clyde for years, and says, "Whatever." He lifts his hands up to adjust his hat. "Can we just get whatever shit you're planning done and get the fuck out of here?" It's not that he's eager to get to Raisins and make an idiot out of himself like he had at the coffee shop earlier, he just really, _really_ hates the mall.

"Would you relax?" Clyde says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, his good mood returning now that he knows Craig doesn't hate him. He moves forward into the middle of the clothing displays and frowns down at a rack full of t-shirts in concentration, swiping some hangers aside. "I know what I'm doing."

"That's debatable," Token says from the other side of the same clothing rack. He lazily pushes the hanger for a neon orange t-shirt back and forth, paying more attention to the phone in his hand than to what he's doing.

"You're debatable." Clyde pulls a red shirt off the rack and holds it up by the hanger, triumphantly dangling it in Craig's face. "Try this one on!"

Craig, arms crossed over his chest, looks from the shirt in Clyde's hand to the shirt on Clyde's body. "That's literally your shirt."

Clyde looks down at himself and grins. "Hey, yeah!" He shakes the hanger again. "It's perfect, don't you think?"

Token snorts, tapping out a message on his phone. "Perfect for what exactly?"

"You know!" Clyde strikes a pose in one of the many small mirrors set up between the racks of clothes, giving his reflection an approving once-over. "Irresistibility."

Craig and Token share a glance. Token rolls his eyes, and then Craig speaks, the shadow of a smirk on his lips. "You're right," he says, his voice completely deadpan.

Clyde turns away from admiring himself in the mirror, his mouth open to, presumably, insist Craig try the red shirt on again, only to be met with the sight of his best friend flipping him off with both hands. "What was that for?"

"Sorry." Craig shrugs. "Couldn't resist."

"Douchebag," Clyde pouts as he hangs the shirt back up with a shake of his head, accidentally executing a perfect emo kid hairflip. He tilts his head, a mischievous smile appearing on his face. "Actually, you know what, _you're_ right. These clothes aren't right for you." He grabs Craig's arm again and begins leading the way back through the department store. "Come on."

Craig does not like the uncharacteristically devious look on Clyde's face, and a few minutes later when the three of them stop outside the last store Craig would ever willingly set foot in, it's clear his intuition was correct.

"No fuckin' way." Craig wrenches his arm from Clyde's grasp and steps back, shaking his head so hard the strings of his hat whip across his face.

"Dude. Look at you." Once again, Clyde gestures to Craig's whole outfit. "You live in black and blue, you're like a walking black eye, this place is so _you_."

"He's not wrong," Token agrees, offering Craig an apologetic one-shoulder shrug. "Even you have to admit, Craig, it kind of already looks like you shop here."

Craig looks down, suddenly incredibly self-conscious about the way he dresses. Underneath his plain black hoodie, he's wearing a navy blue t-shirt, one of at least six identical shirts he has hanging in his bedroom closet at any given time. His jeans are a slightly darker shade of black than his hoodie, and very well-worn, as evidenced by the fraying fabric at the bottom edge of each leg. His socks are also black, as are his old ratty sneakers, the dirty laces that had once been white now a dull grungy gray. He tugs on the edge of his blue hat before reaching up to touch the yellow pompom on the top of it.

"It's not like there's anything wrong with it," Clyde says quickly, already feeling guilty at the expression of what looks like defeat on Craig's face. It's the second time that day he's seen his normally unflappable friend express real emotion and he finds it extremely distressing. "Everyone has their own style!" He points to Token. "Like, see, he's like, rich-kid casual."

Token nods, holding out his arms to show off his classic charcoal-colored sweater and dark blue jeans, the entire outfit courtesy of Armani Exchange. Waving an arm in Clyde's direction he says, "Right, and Clyde's look says something more like, _I-wish-I-worked-at-Target_."

"Can you _just_ ," Clyde says unhappily as Token laughs. "I'm trying to make a point here."

"I think you made your point." Craig clears his throat, his voice, if possible, even more monotone. "You think I look like shit." The criticism – what he takes as criticism, anyway – of his appearance stings, more than he feels it should. He's worn the same basic outfit for years, and it isn't like Clyde and Token have never commented on it before. For some reason, though, today everything is hitting him harder than usual. It's like when Clyde opened that notebook earlier, all of the locked boxes of emotions in Craig's mind had opened as well.

"No!" Clyde looks desperately at Token. "That's not what I'm saying, I'm saying, just, like–" He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and shakes it at Craig. "You wouldn't have been number one if you looked like shit!"

"What the fuck did you bring that for?!" Craig moves to grab the list but Clyde shoves it back in his pocket just in time.

"I thought it might help," he says, cringing a little bit under Craig's death glare. "Like later, at Raisins, I thought maybe we could show everyone and –"

"No." Craig holds out his hand, noticing at the last second that it's shaking just a bit. "Nobody else needs to see it."

"But don't you –"

"Jesus fuck, Clyde, just give it back to him." Token shoots Craig a sympathetic look. "I know it's hard to believe, but he's genuinely trying to help you. Remember when he stole the answer key to my history final last year?"

"This is different," Craig grumbles, snatching the list from Clyde as he reluctantly holds it out again. He crumples it slightly, cramming it into the pocket of his hoodie. "This is fuckin'..." He trails off, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Of course he knows that Clyde is trying to help him. Since preschool, all Clyde has ever done is be there for not just Craig, but anyone he decides needs his help. It's just not in his nature to be a deliberately malicious douchebag, and that's what makes it so hard for Craig to ever actually be truly upset with him.

"I'm sorry." Clyde's second apology of the last half hour comes with more tears, and a few giant disgusting sniffles. "It's just–"

"Shut up," Craig says, looking up at the sign for the store they are currently standing outside of. Hot Topic, home of the emo kids, the douchebag vampire wannabes, and sworn enemy of the Goth kids.

He closes his eyes for a second, knowing he's going to hate himself for the choice he's about to make, but needing to find some sort of compromise that will keep Clyde from bawling his eyes out in the middle of the mall. "One thing," he says, holding up his index finger in case Clyde doesn't understand basic English. He turns his head to make eye contact and elaborates, "You can find me _one_ fuckin' thing."

"Really?" Clyde sniffles again, his face lighting up with hope. "Just wait, Craig, you'll see, you won't regret this!"

_Doubtful,_ Craig thinks to himself. Out loud he says, as he follows Clyde inside the store, Token on his heels, "It just better not fuckin' sparkle."

* * *

Tweek carefully places the plastic bag containing the next day's deposit inside the coffee shop's tiny safe, under the register at the front counter, and closes the door. His hands are shaking, and when he looks up at the big round clock on the coffee shop's wall, his stomach clenches. It's just after five o'clock, which means as soon as Kenny is finished mopping the floors, it's going to be time for them to meet up with the other guys to go to Raisins.

Any other day before today, the idea of going to Raisins, or anywhere for that matter, with everyone after work on a Sunday wouldn't be such a big deal. Sure, nobody usually hangs out on Sunday nights because most of the time they're all scrambling to get the homework done that they'd ignored all weekend, but it isn't completely unheard of. Tweek can think of a few occasions where Craig, Clyde, and Token had shown up with no warning just as Tweek was locking the door to go out for tacos or something. It isn't common, but it definitely isn't cause for alarm.

What makes tonight different is that tonight it's not just about hanging out and getting something to eat. Tweek presses his palms flat against the rubber mat on the floor, on either side of his knees, and takes a deep breath. He can just see over the top of the counter, out into the cafe lobby where Kenny is twirling around the floor with the mop, confidence radiating off of him even though he has to know he looks absolutely ridiculous.

He's always been that way, though, as far back as Tweek can remember. Always completely unconcerned with what anybody else thinks of him, more secure in his identity at nine years old than Tweek is even now at seventeen.

They've never really been _friends_ , exactly, Tweek and Kenny. Kenny mainly spends all of his time with Kyle, Stan, and Cartman, for reasons Tweek doesn't think he'll ever understand. And out of his own group of friends, the only one who Tweek would say is relatively close to Kenny is Clyde. But every so often the two of them would get grouped together for class projects, or Kenny would drop in on a movie night at Token's, and so Tweek has seen enough of him over the years to get a pretty decent handle on who Kenny is as a person.

To Tweek, Kenny is like the main character's best friend in a typical teen movie: just as, if not more so, intelligent; well-liked by everyone he comes across, partially due to his overwhelming charisma and the way he can fit into any clique at any time with minimal effort; perceptive as hell with an uncanny ability to offer just the right advice at any given moment. The only reason Tweek wouldn't go so far as to classify Kenny as the main character is because he just doesn't ever seem to have enough drama following him around. Apart from the occasional misfortune of dying – which is old news at this point in their lives – the most drama Tweek can recall surrounding Kenny is when Kyle had cheated on him with Christophe in tenth grade, and their subsequent breakup in the hallway outside the chemistry lab.

But even then, it hadn't even seemed to faze Kenny all that much, and he was still as cheerful and self-assured as ever the next day in class. It's that kind of self-assuredness, that kind of confidence, that Tweek wishes he had. Especially tonight.

With one last push on the door of the safe to double check that it had locked properly, Tweek gets to his feet. He reaches behind him to untie the strings of his apron, slipping it over his head and tossing it into the bin just inside the entrance to the back room. A loud tapping on the front door makes him jump, with a "Jesus!" and he turns to see Clyde waving from outside, his face pushed up against the glass, Token and Craig next to him.

Tweek's stomach churns, but he forces what he hopes is a smile onto his face and lifts an arm to wave back.

"They're here," Kenny singsongs, stretching out the word 'here' and pirouetting over to put the mop away. He grins at Tweek, using the glass of the pastry case to check his reflection. "Ready?"

"Oh, God." Tweek picks up his thermos of coffee from the counter and unscrews the lid, gulping down a mouthful of Sunset Blend.

"Okay, first of all, relax." Kenny drapes his arm around Tweek's shoulders. "You guys hang out all the time, it's not like this is a date for you or anything." He nods to the thermos. "Second, if you need something for courage, I can hook you up with something way better."

Tweek shakes his head, replacing the thermos' lid. "No, I just need to–"

"Breathe," Kenny finishes for him. "You need to breathe. You worry too much." He squeezes Tweek's shoulders lightly. "Just remember. Follow my lead, and we'll have Craig dying of jealousy before the night's over."

Jealousy. That's Kenny's angle for Operation: Get These Crazy Kids Together ("It's a working title," he'd said earlier). "I mean, think about it," he'd reasoned with a laugh. "I know he's considered the leader of you all, but Craig doesn't exactly seem like a real take-charge kind of guy."

Tweek had been in the middle of setting up a coffee tasting, having decided to use the abnormal Sunday downtime to try to impart some caffeinated wisdom onto Kenny. "So how do I make him jealous?" he'd asked, pouring hot water over the coffee grounds in the bottom of the French press sitting on the counter.

"You flirt with me," Kenny had responded matter-of-factly, dodging the timer a sudden twitch had caused Tweek to accidentally throw at him.

"What!?" Timer forgotten, Tweek had stared at Kenny, only for him to laugh again.

"Not for real, Jesus, chill out." And with a shake of his blond hair, Kenny had proceeded to outline his master plan.

It was incredibly simple, as far as master plans go. All Tweek needed to do, according to Kenny, was flirt his ass off with someone who wasn't Craig. This would, in turn, drive Craig "up the fucking wall" with jealousy until he couldn't take it anymore and he finally confessed his feelings for Tweek – that Kenny swore on his life existed.

Kenny had volunteered himself to be Tweek's flirting partner because he was, as he said, "a safe choice", being in on the plan and zero percent likely to catch his own feelings.

"Plus," he'd added cheerfully, clinking his tiny coffee tasting cup against Tweek's. "You want the best for this."

There's more tapping on the glass from behind them and Tweek can hear Clyde's muffled shout of, "You coming or what?"

"Impatient, aren't they?" Kenny takes his arm off Tweek's shoulders. With a tilt of his head, he smiles again, an encouraging smile this time. "You got this, Tweek, I promise. Just relax. He already likes you, we just have to get him to the point where he'll say it." He gestures to the door. "Shall we?"

Tweek takes one more deep breath, nodding as he exhales. Holding tightly to his thermos in one hand, he digs in the pocket of his Tweek Bros brand khakis for the keys to the store with the other. "You go ahead," he says. "I have to set the alarm."

"Deal," Kenny replies, spinning on one heel and launching into a half-assed series of cartwheels across the floor. He pushes open the door of the coffee shop and greets the awaiting trio with, "Avast, mateys!"

"Are you still on the pirate shit?" Token shakes his head. "I still don't think that's going to get you far with Ferrari."

"Hey, if she can't accept me for the swashbuckler I am, it's her loss." Kenny grins. "She's not the only one in this town who'd look great on my arm."

Craig clenches his jaw, shoving his hands as far down into his jeans' pockets as he can; he has a good idea of what Kenny is insinuating, having just seen him through the window with his arm around Tweek's shoulders, and he hates it. He shifts slightly, telling himself that Kenny isn't Tweek's type, but it's a hollow kind of self-reassurance. The thing about Kenny is that he's _everyone's_ type. He's so fucking personable, about a thousand times more likeable than Craig could ever hope to be, and as much as he hates to admit it, objectively Kenny is one of the most attractive guys in the entire town.

He's about to open his mouth to shoot a snarky comment of some kind in Kenny's direction, just for having the audacity to exist, really, but then the door opens again and Tweek slips out, keys jingling in his hand.

"Hey, Tweek!" Clyde says, nudging Craig with his elbow like he needs to inform him of Tweek's arrival even though they're all literally standing right there. "How was work?"

A few months ago, at a movie night Kenny had decided to crash, they'd ended up watching Mean Girls. Clyde insisted it was the most accurate portrayal of high school in a movie he'd ever seen, which had prompted Token to ask when Clyde had been a teenage girl in high school. Kenny had jumped in, mentioning something about "Claudette" in tenth grade, the name bringing a vague recollection to Craig's memory of a rumor about Cartman having lost his virginity to a French maid he'd found on some shady Internet personals website.

The whole concept had made Craig want to vomit, so he'd never looked much further into it; for some reason though, Clyde had gotten upset and refused to speak to anyone again for the rest of the night. Without Clyde's usual incessant chatter in the background, Craig had been forced to pay attention to the movie, which is why he remembers that near the end, one of the characters had been, literally, hit by a bus.

Token had made some Captain Obvious remark of, "That looked painful,"; Kenny had confirmed the assessment, citing the time he'd lost his balance trying to unicycle backwards and had flown right into the path of a bus full of middle schoolers. According to him, getting hit by a bus feels like getting punched in the stomach, launched out of a catapult, and beaten with a meat cleaver, all at the same time.

When Tweek looks up from locking the door behind him and smiles back at Clyde, Craig feels that he can say, with certainty, that he has just been hit by a bus. His breath catches in his throat and he looks down, feeling his face heat up despite the cool October mountain air.

"Slow," Tweek answers, returning his keys to his pocket and clasping both hands around his thermos. "I got all of tomorrow's inventory count done." His eye twitches suddenly and he spins around, peering into the dark interior of the coffee shop. "Wait, I didn't finish the dishes!"

"I did," Kenny laughs, reaching out to ruffle Tweek's hair. "There were like, three mugs, relax."

"Oh." Tweek turns back around, just as Craig lifts his head up, and the two of them make eye contact for the first time that day.

"Uh," Craig says, struggling to remember how he normally greets his friend. "Hey." He can't tear his gaze from Tweek's bright green eyes, several shades lighter than the color of the shirts he always wears. In his peripheral vision he's sure he can see Clyde and Token watching him and he can feel every muscle in his body tense up at the unwanted attention. He takes his hands out of his pockets only to realize he has no idea what to do with them, and crosses his arms awkwardly.

"Hey," Tweek says back, his grip on the thermos tightening. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. _Inhale, exhale, cool the coffee. Breathe._ Craig is the only person he's ever known that has gray eyes, and Tweek has always thought that they're the most fascinating eyes he's ever seen. Even now, when they're narrowed in what looks like – _oh, Jesus_ – irritation. He twitches, jerking his head to the right and breaking eye contact. He looks down and says, surprised, "You got new shoes."

Craig looks down again, at his feet this time; more accurately, at the brand-new monstrosities that are covering his feet. He should have known that when he gave Clyde permission to pick out one piece of Hot Topic merchandise that he'd go for shoes. He's just grateful that these ones aren't as horrifically offensive to the eye as Clyde's original choice, some rainbow-laced bullshit. At least the shoes he'd ended up with still match his, as Clyde had said earlier, "walking black eye" aesthetic – they just also happen to have obnoxious skulls all over them. "Yeah," is all he manages to say in response.

"About time, Jesus!" Kenny's voice cuts through the sudden awkwardness of the moment. "Like I know you don't care about anything, and all that, but whatever the hell was going on with your old shoes was seriously disturbing."

Craig just scowls at him. "At least I can afford new shoes," he says, falling back on the old reliable method of making cracks about Kenny's impoverished lifestyle.

Kenny just smiles brightly, entirely unoffended by the remark. "Hey, I have a job now!" He nudges Tweek with his shoulder. "And Tweeky here is going to make sure I'm the best, right?"

"Um," Tweek says, one hand pulling nervously at the hem of his shirt. "I mean, I guess –"

"Just wait!" Kenny throws his arm around Tweek's shoulders again and starts leading the way down the sidewalk. "One day we'll own the place and we can have both our names on the sign!"

"Tweek and Kenny Bros. Coffee is a terrible name," Token says as he follows after them, Clyde on his heels and Craig trailing at the edge of the group.

"Duh, we'll combine them, we can call it Twenny Coffee!" Kenny replies. "And everything will cost twenty dollars!"

"Oh, right, because that's going to get you a lot of business." Token snorts.

"I'll buy your coffee!" Clyde says happily, falling into step beside Token, who shakes his head at the declaration.

"You'd need to actually get your hands on twenty dollars first."

"Well, if you'd actually pay me when I win our bets, I'd have a whole bunch of twenty dollars!"

"I'd gladly pay you, if you ever won." Token shrugs. "Tell you what, I'll bet you twenty that Kenny dies tonight."

"Those are some good odds," Kenny says offhandedly from in front of them. "I haven't died in weeks."

Craig glares at the back of Kenny's head, feeling very much like that might change tonight if he doesn't get his goddamn arm away from Tweek's shoulders.

Fifteen minutes, one runaway thermos, and three separate bets later, the quintet of teenagers finally arrive at their destination. Kenny is the one to pull the door open with a flourish. "After you," he says to Tweek with a wink.

"Thanks." Tweek smiles, having calmed down a little on the walk over. The whole time, while Clyde and Token had been arguing the logistics of their bets behind them, Kenny had been whispering advice to Tweek on the best ways to drive Craig crazy. Having some more solid guidelines to follow seemed to have given him just the slightest bit more confidence – which is why, as he moves through the doorway, he lifts his arm and lets his fingers _just_ brush against Kenny's hand that is holding the door open for everyone.

It's a tiny gesture that not even Token or Clyde seem to notice. Craig does, though, and when it's his turn to pass by Kenny into the restaurant, it takes everything he has not to shove him backwards; though he can't help the low growl that emanates from his throat.

"Hi, welcome to Raisins!" they're greeted by tonight's hostess, none other than Mercedes Daimler herself. "Five of you?" Hardly even looking at any of them, the telltale sign of a veteran hostess, she grabs some menus from the stand beside her.

"Hi, Mercedes," Clyde says, beaming at her. He steps forward and leans an arm on the stand. "How've you been?"

Upon registering Clyde's face, Mercedes' huge phony Raisins-smile falters and she lets out a small, barely audible, "Ew." Regaining her composure, she replies, "I'm great, sweetie, how are you?" as she leads them through the restaurant.

"I'm good," Clyde says, trotting after her, oblivious to the fact that she wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

"That's great!" Mercedes stops beside a big semicircle booth, dropping the menus on the table. "You guys have a seat and I'll get Sierra right over, okay?"

"Sierra!" Clyde points triumphantly at Token. "I said Sierra! Hand over my money."

"Don't get too cocky," Token says, pulling a twenty out of his back pocket that Clyde snatches gleefully. "You're just going to have to give it back when you lose the next one." He looks from the booth to the five of them, still just standing beside it. "We going to sit down or…?"

Craig stumbles a bit as Clyde grabs his arm and basically shoves him forward. Managing to catch himself just before smashing into the edge of the table by pretty much falling onto the seat, he glares up at Clyde, flipping him off at the same time. "What the fuck, Clyde?"

"Sorry," Clyde says, his expression innocent. "I tripped." He motions for Craig to move over and slides into the booth beside him.

Token looks down at the inch of space left on the edge. "That's very flattering, guys, but I need a little more than that."

Craig sighs in exasperation, but scoots over to give Token some more room, not realizing until he's scooted right into him that Tweek has slid into the booth on the opposite end.

Startled, and very, _very_ conscious of the fact that his and Craig's bodies are touching from shoulders to knees, Tweek shrieks, "Waaagh!" His leg jerks up and his knee smacks into the bottom of the table. "Jesus!" He pulls away from Craig only to collide with Kenny, on his other side, in the exact same way.

Kenny ruffles Tweek's hair again and laughs. "Jeez, Tweeky, if you wanted to be close to me, all you had to do was ask." He leans over to whisper into Tweek's ear, "Relax, you're doing fine."

"My knee hurts," Tweek whispers back, not sure he agrees.

Craig grinds his teeth together and mutters to Clyde, "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"What? Him?" Clyde gestures to Kenny and replies, as quietly as he can, "Dude, it's nothing, he flirts with everyone."

"Hi, guys, I'm Sierra! How are we all doing tonight?" A bubbly redheaded waitress appears at the end of the table, smiling brightly at the five teenagers assembled in the booth.

Token looks around, assessing the situation: Clyde and Craig hissing at each other on one side of the booth; Kenny and Tweek whispering to each other on the other; the pile of menus all but forgotten in the middle of the table.

With a sigh, he pulls a menu towards himself, and offers the waitress an apologetic grin. "I think we're going to need a minute."

* * *

_The Girls Don't Know Shit_

_1\. Tweek  
_ _2\. Clyde  
_ _3\. Kenny  
_ _4\. Token  
_ _5\. Kevin  
_ _6\. Francis  
_ _7\. Craig  
_ _8\. Jimmy  
_ _9\. Jason  
_ _10\. Kyle  
_ _11\. Stan  
_ _12\. Bradley  
_ _13\. Butters_  
_14\. Leroy  
_ _15\. Timmy_


End file.
